


Adjusting Masks

by michelel72



Series: Near Point [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelel72/pseuds/michelel72
Summary: In the wake of Jonathan's recent self-revelations, Tonya helps him navigate his next day at work.
Series: Near Point [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571716
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Sock & Buskin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to "Sound of Silver" and assumes familiarity with the events of that story.
> 
> I apologize for the unwieldy chaptering, but this one didn't want to break into smaller proportionate pieces.
> 
> Content notes: References to workplace harassment; DIY therapy.

Tonya stifles an ill-timed yawn as she approaches the coffee shop. One of the reasons they like this one particularly is its good sight lines. She's confident she's being observed by now.

Proving her point, when she's still about twenty feet away, her partner steps out and joins her, handing her an iced coffee. Regular, the way she likes it, of course, and not sweating yet. He gives her a brief smile, mostly just greeting, but he seems oddly  _ flat _ .

"So what name do you  _ really _ want me to call you?" she asks.

He clearly wasn't expecting that to be the first thing she said. That's good; he tends to get a little lost in his own head sometimes, wrapped up in contingencies and what-ifs and worst cases. Shaking him out of that occasionally seems like a good idea.

Before a few days ago, she never thought to ask the question. Everyone at work has always called him  _ Jack _ , and he's never shown any sign of minding — but then, he wouldn't. He always gives his name as  _ Jon _ and signs all his paperwork as  _ Jonathan _ . Plenty of people are fine with being called nicknames that they don't use for themselves, but … she should have asked, long before yesterday, and she needs to be sure of his answer now.

He actually takes a few seconds to answer. "Honestly,  _ Jack _ feels like your name for me," he decides. His voice is a little flatter than usual, too. "I mean, it's the name you got to know me under. It's what you're used to saying, and it's what I'm used to  _ hearing _ you say. I think it'd just feel weird if you called me anything else. And … I don't know. You say it nicely, if that makes any sense."

She's heard — and doesn't like — the tone a lot of cops use when they talk about him, so she thinks she knows what he means. And he's right that they'd probably both have a lot of adjusting to do if she tried to change what she calls him now.

"If you're sure," she says finally. "Like I said before, tell me if that changes. What's the accent?"

"Some weird Frankenstein hybrid of Southie and North Jersey, I think," Jack says. "Apparently I spent so long adopting Southie it half-took and this is what comes out when I'm not actually aiming for anything particular." He makes a face. "Can't say I'm fond of it. I'll probably end up switching into Southie just so I stop distracting  _ myself _ . I'm just trying to be careful about the stuff I've been doing automatically. But … if I end up wandering up into the North Shore every now and then —"

"I know. You drift towards what you're hearing unless you're fighting it. It's fine." He's worried before that it comes across as mockery, but she knows it isn't, and honestly, most of the time it's too mild an effect to be mockery anyway.

She gets them started walking before he can get too restless. She'd rather face him for some of this stuff, but she wants him as comfortable as possible. "Serious question. How are you?"

For possibly the first time in their acquaintance, he actually treats the question seriously. "I usually say I'm fine because … I think I've been answering a different question. I think I've actually been answering  _ can you function? _ and I usually can. And I … well, we've had the  _ imposing _ conversation before."

They have, several times. Jack hates imposing, and he tends to think of just about anything as qualifying. Such as being admitting to being anything less than "fine".

"I'm leading with that because I know you don't think much of my ability to assess myself. That's fair," he adds quickly. "I'm not great about answering the actual question, or about being honest with my answers. Even to myself. But … I  _ know _ that, and I'm trying to be honest now, okay?"

It's been a long time since he's felt the need to add that many caveats before answering one of her questions. "Okay …"

"So, right now … I'm … actually doing better than I expected."

Tonya side-eyes him for that, but for once, he doesn't seem to be watching for her reaction. He's frowning thoughtfully down at his own coffee.

"I'm rattled. I'm embarrassed as all fuck. Blah blah toxic masculinity, I hate the prospect of all this  _ feelings _ talk. But … the stuff I need to work on is mostly on the personal-life side of things. It doesn't really touch my work personas, except with you. And my performance art piece." He smiles a little at that.

But it's only a little, and the smile doesn't last, and she doesn't really know how to take his expression.

"When you say personas," Tonya says. It's probably fine, but.

"When you're at home, do you ever have to remind yourself to be a wife or a mom instead of a cop?"

She wouldn't have put it quite that way — she sometimes has to remind herself not to be a cop at home, is all — but she gets his meaning. "Yeah."

"That's all I mean. It's not a multiple-personality thing or anything like that." Which means he'd worried about it himself. That's hardly surprising, though, since one of his admissions last night was a fear of being labeled crazy. "Everybody has different facets for different situations — like what stuff they can say at work, or with their friends, or to their parents, or whatever. I think about which mode I'm in a little more explicitly than most people do, I think. I'm … this isn't my normal mode with you," he adds.

No kidding. "I know you pick up on reactions, so I'll make  _ this _ explicit: you're kind of scaring me with this  _ flat _ thing. I keep expecting you'll either tell me you have some terminal diagnosis or walk me into a bloodbath of a crime scene. I don't think this is actually anything like that, so … I don't know. Don't panic just because you can see me trying not to panic."

Because he's always been so attuned to her moods, so reactive to them. She jokes sometimes that he's secretly telepathic because his knack for reading people gets him awfully close to it on occasion. That's handy most of the time, but it's a complication in moments like this.

"I know," he says. "Sorry. My mode for you … it's easier than most of them. I think it might be more honest. But it's still … kind of a mask, I guess? And … I'm trying …" He makes a face. "Andy says I externalize my controls. You know, rely on other people's judgments and opinions instead of having my own. Which, well, award for obvious conclusion of the year, I guess. I'm trying to use that now — reminding myself that you all deserve better from me. More honesty, to start with. But … I can't do this at work. The various performances and personalities — they're  _ how _ I work. I need them. And most of them are fine, except for the dipshit one. But right now is about …  _ I _ think I'm fine for regular duty, but my judgment about myself is honestly pretty crappy, and that's too important to get wrong. So I'm trying to give you something real to work with."

"Hang on a second. 'The dipshit one'?"

His brief smile at that is twisted. "Yeah. The performance art piece. I have names for some of my personas, and one of my names for that one is the dipshit."

"You've … been playing a role  _ you yourself _ call a dipshit. Every workday. Longer than I've even known you."

"I'm kind of fucked up," Jack mutters. "Pretty sure that's not news."

And he said as much last night.  _ That act is fucking me up. It's been fucking me up the whole time, but I thought I needed it _ .

Tonya considers for about a block. She's known for a very long time that he's far too prone to tearing himself down and that he relies on the opinions of others to a worrying extent. But at the same time … he's right that this sounds more like it's about his personal life, and it doesn't necessarily mean he can't do his job just fine. It's not like he seems to shape himself to please random people on the street or the suspects they deal with. His space-cadet act  _ is _ shaped to placate most other cops, but that's just an act; he drops it around her, and somewhat around Lt. Ciccone, and he's planning to get rid of it anyway.

But she's guessing at this stuff, out of habit. "Relying on other people's judgments. Is that everyone?"

"Mostly no. I mean … it's tempting." Damn, he really is being straightforward. "But even I realize that's a terrible idea. Katie, you, Mark, Andy. I know our notes for the zapping thing are meant to be private, but part of mine is that the four of you are my  _ trust _ list. It … it used …"

His shoulders are starting to curl inward a bit and he shoves his free hand in his pocket. Body language hangover from having recently been reverted to a teenager, or natural body language he usually suppresses?

"It used to be my family and the church, too, but when those … extracting myself …" He sighs. "Messy. But necessary. I could ... hate myself for …" He swallows, closes his eyes a few seconds, forces out, "For … being gay …"

This may well be the first time she's ever heard him say that. Even when he set out to tell someone in front of her, even after he got himself alarmingly drunk for it, he only managed to start correcting pronouns until the penny dropped, and then he pulled a  _ hey, look at the time _ escape.

"... when it was just about me, but I couldn't hate  _ Andy _ for that, so I actually had to figure out how  _ not _ to listen to some of that stuff. And later, when the church … I can't exactly respect the moral authority of an organization that worried more about protecting its own image than it did about the kids it was hurting."

Tonya remembers he took the revelations about the Catholic Church pretty hard, but only because he let her  _ see _ he was in a relatively bad mood whenever the topic came up, which it never did directly from him. He hasn't really talked about it, and he doesn't look happy to be talking about it now.

In his younger state, he said grace before every meal with her, even when he had to murmur it quickly because he felt watched and awkward. When she asked him to come up with a poem or song lyric, he immediately instead recited Our Father and clearly took comfort in it.

He's never been that openly religious in front of her as an adult. He's only shown a few signs of observance at all — crossing himself once or twice, helping a few people pray when asked, pressing his rosary into her hand with a simple plea to humor him when she went into labor, that kind of thing. Little gestures, easily overlooked. So she didn't think all that much about it at the time, but the church scandal was probably far more significant to him than she's ever realized.

She appreciates knowing about it as a friend, but this discussion is more about work, so she decides to redirect him for now. "Your note said to trust me, and you told me that at the time, but you didn't really. Not in that moment. But I'm pretty sure it wasn't long at all before you did. Was that just you needing time to think about it?"

He smiles faintly. "No. It  _ is _ because of something you did." Because of course he can hear her real question. "So … when we're talking to brass, I tend to stand a little behind you. Partly because I'm a little taller, so I'm still visible and it kind of … groups us together better, I guess. Less back-and-forth than if I stood directly beside you. And it's partly to show I'm backing you up. But since I'm working on being honest … there's probably an element of trying to hide behind you. Regardless, you're used to it, so you adjust to make room without really having to think about it. That was the last piece I needed."

He says things like that sometimes, casually, offhandedly. As if that kind of analysis of every moment and every physical position of every interaction is so automatic, so  _ expected _ , that it doesn't need explanation, even as he's acknowledging that she  _ doesn't _ go through life that way. It sounds exhausting.

He downs the last of his coffee, but then he continues, with no prompting from her needed. "I was lost and confused, but you talked me through it, right away. You acknowledged how I was feeling — you  _ validated _ how I was feeling — without expecting me to just suck it up and deal. You stuck with me and made sure I was okay. You were amused a few times, but you didn't laugh at me at all. You took me seriously. You acted like I mattered. And then you accounted for me being there without having to be  _ reminded _ I was there. I probably would have gone to war for you by that point."

"Jack," Tonya says slowly, "I'm not trying to belittle you here, but … if ten minutes of orientation are enough to win your undying loyalty …"

"Ten minutes of focused, caring attention," he corrects. "When I  _ desperately _ needed just that. Do you have any idea how  _ fucking invisible _ I was back then? Had always been? And I'd spent the last year and a half embracing that desperately, because I'd finally figured out I wasn't just a late bloomer or destined for priesthood, so I was terrified of being noticed, but that doesn't mean I didn't still crave it. If … if I'd just had someone like you back when I was a kid, just one person … but I didn't. So by that point, I was pretty much in the clearance bin."

He's always been so good with kids, so focused on what they need, so careful to give them attention. Particularly the shy or withdrawn ones, the overlooked ones. And she's always been bothered by how easily he avoids notice himself, but she's never quite put those things together to see where they line up.

His sister said something close to it, didn't she?  _ You don't have to be grateful just because someone likes you _ . That was about his relationship with the guy who ended up outing him, which would have been somewhere in his mid- or late-twenties, but she clearly meant it more broadly.

And Tonya isn't nearly as good at picking up reactions as Jack is, but she has a son. The conversation quickly went a different direction, but when they were all there on Katie's couch, she could swear Jack's — Jonathan's — first reaction was the same look Lije gets sometimes. The one that goes with  _ You're just saying that because you're my mom _ . Dismissive disbelief.

Katie then allowed that he'd gotten better about it in the time since that one clearly disastrous relationship, and Tonya's immediate reaction was skepticism. She ended up backing off from that. Maybe she shouldn't have.

Jack winces. "Which is not to belittle  _ you _ . You really were amazing, and me being a cheap date doesn't change that. It's just why I was so quick to latch on to you, which I was a little confused about later, too, until I got a chance to think about it."

Tonya fights down her own reflexive annoyance and makes herself really think about what he just did. "So, if this is you being more honest than usual … the excessive apologies and the paranoia that you've managed to insult me — those really are  _ you _ and not your-mode-for-me?"

But that's not a surprise. His younger version was just as quick to apologize and to praise her. It is a sort of relief — she'd always thought that was him, before she knew he considered even being with her another one of his roles, and she  _ would _ be annoyed now if it turned out that was all a show.

"They're definitely me," he mutters. "I just … I mean, it's not … I know you … I don't —"

He scrubs at his face with a wordless growl.

"I  _ suck _ at this," he complains, and then he launches into a rapid-fire rant. "I am a galactic supercluster of insecurity but I don't get why you  _ stay _ . I know you're an adult, I know you have your reasons, I know it's  _ not about me _ , but some of it  _ is _ and I don't  _ get _ it. I'll be honest, I don't think you could actually be chief by now unless you went for a small town because the political crap around it here is a shitty game and you're too honest for it, but you should be a hell of a lot closer to it than you are, but you decided to stay with me, back when that really was toxic. And I get that switching to Harry would've been a problem, too, but it would have been so much less of one than tying yourself to my reputation at that point. And then you  _ kept _ staying.

"And I know you do have your reasons, and they're not my business — this is  _ me _ not asking  _ you _ for a change — and you're an adult and any trust issues I still have after  _ fifteen years _ of you proving yourself are about me, not you, but I still worry that you'll — no, that's not right. I don't worry that you'll leave me because if you decided to go for promotion I'd lead the damn parade, and I would miss you like  _ hell _ but I'd be so damn glad for you, and I'm not great at working alone but I've learned a lot from you and I'd manage. I just —"

And with that he deflates.

"I'm scared I'll drive you away," he admits. "Because I am very good at fucking things up. So I keep worrying that you'll leave me and it'll be my fault. And I know I should be over that by now, but I'm not."

And so he apologizes endlessly and always puts her needs above his, her comfort above his, her opinions above his.

He draws a breath to say something more, so she puts up a hand to stop him. "Give me a minute with that." Because there's a decent chance it's for  _ another apology _ , and she's not sure she could take that.

He obeys without protest or question, because of course he does. And maybe that's a problem, too, but it can be a problem for later.

She feels like it should be news, but it really isn't. He was shocked the first time she decided to stick with him, enough to let it show through the constant everything's-fine act, and he tried to talk her out of it for her sake. He's been careful with her ever since, even as he's unbent enough for them to become close friends ...

"You do know we're friends, right?" she checks. "Not  _ just _ work partners."

He winces again, but he says, "Yes. I mean. I have trouble  _ believing _ it sometimes, but yeah, I do know." Another faint smile. "But I'm cheating. Mark and Katie both take it for granted. Andy nagged me into accepting it, years and years ago. Katie even volunteered it to younger-me when he —  _ I _ double-checked that we were actually even partners. So I have independent corroboration."

By which he means opinions he trusts over his own.

She notes in passing that he's struggling to accept his temporarily reverted state as himself, but she has no complaints there. She'd probably be just as turned around, and he clearly is working on it.

She also realizes belatedly that he did switch over into mild-Southie at some point. It's just as well. She would find an adopted accent harder to maintain herself,  _ more _ distracting, but his relationship to accents is clearly not the same as hers.

"So why didn't you have someone when you were a kid?" she asks. She's really not used to asking him such personal questions. It feels strange. "Where were your parents?"

"Working," he says, and wow, that is actual irritation. At her. He never shows that. "They were trying to provide a secure life and a good education to five kids. They had a lot to deal with. It's not their fault I —"

He cuts himself off, body language tight and small.

Tonya waits him out. Katie doesn't, she noticed; Katie fills in for him so he doesn't have to say things. Tonya tries not to, as a rule. She's rarely confident that her assumptions of what he means are entirely accurate, and he  _ won't _ correct her if she gets it wrong.

"There wasn't a lot of attention left to go around," he says finally. "It's not their fault I couldn't get much of it even if I'd had a marching band and a megaphone."

"Because they couldn't count to five?" Tonya prods. He got away with forging their signatures on his report cards. Maybe they were overwhelmed, but they should have done better than  _ that _ . Counting really does seem like the least they could have done.

" _ Don't _ ," he snaps. "Just … don't. You aren't that much younger than I am. You know how much more kids were left to themselves back then. If you weren't bleeding or on fire —"

And they both wince a little at that, remembering his story just yesterday of a time he was bleeding and unnoticed, and of the attention he got but didn't want afterwards.

"You know what I mean," he mutters. "They tried. They did their best. And the other kids all had someone else, because they all had  _ something _ — Jamie had everyone cooing over his art, Katie had all the coaches angling for her, Mary Ellen had all the teachers. Chris had  _ everyone _ . And … I …"

"Nothing?" Tonya supplies pointedly. She wouldn't normally, but the way he said that bothers the hell out of her.

This brief smile is bitter. "I actually thought I got that past you, at the time. Didn't realize until last night that I hadn't. Yeah, I had nothing, and by that point I really felt like I  _ was _ nothing."

She was afraid of that. "So when you talk about erasing yourself …"

He takes a few seconds. "Case study," he says finally. "Yesterday. You brought up 9/11. I  _ was _ right that you had more to worry about," he insists. "And I remember thinking that I was grateful, in a weird way, that I could focus on you instead of just worrying about people back home. But  _ you _ were right that I still could have said something. We're adults. We can actually worry about more than one thing at a time. We can sympathize about sharing problems without having to compare them. But back then, and even yesterday, I just automatically assumed that since your problem was bigger, mine was automatically null and void."

She almost had it. She really should have pushed, but she let herself get annoyed and distracted. She  _ should have pushed _ .

"Don't," he says again, this time gently. "It wouldn't have helped to say anything yesterday. I wouldn't have heard you. I was actually a little annoyed at you for acting like I was being a martyr. I really didn't see what I was doing. It's just … that's how I deal with pretty much  _ everything _ . Anything I have or do or think or feel, there's always something to compare it to, and mine will always lose. Everything is pass/fail, win/lose, and I'm always on the wrong side. Not because it's real, but … because that's … that's basically how every single interaction went when I was a kid, until I ended up just cutting out the middleman and handling the dismissals myself. It felt easier that way. It … I thought it hurt less, that way."

That explains so much. That might explain  _ everything _ .

And if he's been doing that for more or less his entire life … that's going to be hell to budge.

"You're setting the midlife crisis bar awfully high," she says. He uses humor and offbeat observations to lighten the mood, and he could probably use a break by now.

He huffs a little at that, mild amusement. That's all the comment really deserves, but she seldom gets more than that from him anyway. His laughs are very rare, and even then, they're usually muted. She's never known whether that's a matter of the tight control he keeps over his emotional expression at work, or a persistent mild depression, or natural reservation, or something else entirely.

But she does worry about him, and she has for a very long time, in ways she's not often able to express openly. They're friends, but they're also coworkers, and they've both been very careful about that complication. More than she'd even realized, with that yardstick rule of his.

She still wishes she'd said  _ fuck it _ to all that and given the guy a hug the other day, when he so clearly and so desperately needed one.

But she can't go back and fix it now, any more than she can go back and find someone to direct positive attention to that poor, achingly earnest kid back when it would have made a difference. And she did at least eventually do something about it the other day, talking Katie into providing the physical affection she felt she couldn't.

"So," she says finally. "About work."

He takes a deep breath, huffs it out, and  _ shifts _ in a way she's never been able to define. And with that, he's fully her partner again, comfortably familiar, the strange flatness gone. "Work," he agrees. "Like I said,  _ I _ think I'm fine. Certainly for  _ desk duty _ today." He says that with a simple, amused resignation, because complaining about desk duty is practically the cop version of complaining about the weather. "I really do think I'd be fine to head out on  _ real _ work now, but I said I'd stick to desk until you're willing to sign off on more, and I meant it. Getting it right matters to me, but I know it matters more to you. It's more personal for you."

They don't generally talk about the race and sex stuff. He's always been good about recognizing he has advantages she doesn't, but that's usually as far as they need to get into it.

But he's right now that responsible policing  _ matters _ to her in a way it simply can't to him. She's not entirely sure whether she should credit him for respecting that … or be a little annoyed that he's using it as reason to defer decisions to her  _ again _ .

… Though  _ both _ is certainly an option there.

"We'll have to explain this all to the lieutenant," she points out. "Maybe not the really personal stuff, but at least what you're looking to do and why."

He makes a face. "Yeah. I know."

"Well, let's go see if we can catch him, then." They'll be a little early if they head in now, but not drastically so. They've been following a winding, semi-random path, sticking close but not too close, so they just need to turn at the next intersection.

"I haven't alarmed you into benching me completely, then?" His tone is odd, like he's aiming for a dry sarcasm and  _ missing _ .

"I've known you for more than five minutes, so I'm pretty sure sentencing you to sitting at home isn't going to accomplish anything. You'd be climbing the walls after about ten seconds of that. The stuff you've told me today — maybe you haven't really understood it before, but it's not new, right? You're going to have to work on it — you'd  _ better _ work on it — but that's going to take time. I really don't think it's something you're going to be able to fix completely in a day or two. Probably even in a  _ month _ or two."

That gets a sort of twitch from him, but he doesn't argue.

"And … I think you're right that you're probably fine for work, and that for  _ you _ , working probably actually helps. You're stuck on desk today anyway — that was the lieutenant's call, not mine — and I'll probably want to see you on a low-stakes run before making any firm decisions, but … no, I don't see a reason to shut you down. At least not yet."

He looks a little surprised at that. He really doesn't trust his own judgment about himself.

But there are very good reasons he  _ shouldn't _ . He's always …

Hmm.

"Do you remember the other day, I told you that you'd always had a blind spot about yourself?"

The surprise is replaced with amusement. "Yeah. And you were right about that. I even knew that, a little — when I'm in my adult brain, I mean." The small smile turns thoughtful. "At least, I know I'm way too good at lying to myself. I don't actually know if that's a side effect or how the whole process has to work, though."

The thoughtful look moves on into annoyance.

"I got weird about reflections yesterday and I couldn't figure out  _ why _ for the longest time. Afraid of what I'd see, or what I  _ wouldn't _ see. I think that might just have been a more obvious version of what I've been doing all along — being careful not to look at myself, you know? I guess … people were always so  _ disappointed _ when they looked at me and I didn't measure up, and … I don't know. Maybe I didn't want to have to look and be disappointed, too. And … that's when they even noticed me at all, and I really didn't want to look and see that they were right that there wasn't anyone there — can we  _ not _ do this right now? I  _ can't _ be open like this around other cops."

"That's fair," she allows, and he actually lets his relief show. "Sorry, I'm still catching up on this stuff." But then she stops walking as she realizes what he just did. "You set a boundary. You asked me for something and it was to  _ set a boundary _ ." That is a  _ phenomenal _ improvement over his usual.

The label clearly makes him uneasy. She almost asks about that, but he literally just asked to stop talking about this stuff. She's not going to convince him to set clear boundaries if she immediately tramples all over them.

"I'll stop poking at you," she agrees. "Well … I'll probably have to poke you a little with the lieutenant, but I'll still try to stay away from the personal stuff, as much as I can. Okay?"

"I guess," he mutters. "No, I know it's fair." But he's not acting like it's all totally fine, the way he usually would.

"Okay, I lied, one more thing," Tonya says, and he actually rolls his eyes. "You're doing really well. I know this stuff is hard — it would be hard for anyone, and where you're so used to hiding yourself, I think it's probably a lot harder for you. But if this really did start just  _ last night _ — it seems like you've already worked out a ton, just so far. And you're doing really well at letting me try to help you, too. Seriously, you're doing a great job."

He just blinks at her for a few seconds, bewildered. He's never had any idea what to do with praise or compliments, unless it's to deflect or redirect them. That just makes Tonya wish for a time machine again, simply so she could go yell at a bunch of people.

"I've had help," he says finally, as if he doesn't want her to think he's claiming too much credit. "Mark and Andy, and … and you, and —"

But then he sighs, irritated.

"And I'm actually pretty good at figuring people out if I just bother to  _ look _ ," he allows finally.

"Good job looking, then," she adds with a smile, and he gives her an exasperated glance, but he doesn't argue about it.

They head on over to their building then, but as they get closer, Jack slows and then eventually stops. He's looking at the door, perplexed. "How the hell do I …?"

"One step at a time," Tonya tells him. She knows that's not what he means at all, but this seems like one of those cases where giving him time will just let him get worked up. "Come on. And talk to me while you do it. Those interviews you wanted me to do today — what do you want me to actually  _ say _ ?"

"That I can just go take care of them myself," he answers promptly. "No, I know. And … yeah, that'll work, I guess." He starts outlining what he would do, and when she gets them moving again, he follows without protest.

But that doesn't mean it's without a struggle. The tone Jack uses when he's talking to her is a little higher, a little lighter, than the one he was using this morning. He's clearly having to fight it down from moving upwards from that now, into the vacant range that usually goes with the space-cadet act. The difference is subtle to Tonya, so much that she has to listen for it to hear it at all, probably because he's determined to stay well clear of the stereotypical fey range. But it's definitely there.

She honestly would have thought — did think — that just dropping the act would be  _ easier _ for him. But this is another thing he handles differently, and in fairness, the act is a habit of  _ very _ long standing at this point.

He ditches his empty cup at the first trash can they pass inside and pulls out a pen to keep his hands busy. That's something he usually only does with her or the lieutenant, she realizes, or out in the field. Not otherwise here. Maybe he's never thought it fit the space-cadet role. Regardless, he's letting himself use the trick now, and his focus largely remains on their conversation.

Until he abruptly breaks off with a quick, "Hang on." He turns and raises his voice slightly to call out, "Hey, Cam —"

Cam Lee, another detective in their unit, looks over from the postings board. "Yeah? Oh, hey, Jack, Tonya."

Tonya nods back as they draw close enough for conversation. Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, probably to hide the death grip he's got on his pen, as he says, "Hi. Um, I just — thanks for checking on me yesterday. Sorry I kind of blew you off. Still adjusting back, you know?"

"Oh," Cam says, looking startled, possibly by the revelation that Jack can actually hold a coherent conversation. "Um. You're welcome. Did … you want to talk about it?"

"Not even a little," Jack says, with a lopsided smile that looks  _ genuine _ . "Just wanted to say thanks, that's all. Anyway, I'll let you get back." He and Tonya resume their trek to their desks. Jack exhales a little shakily once they're no longer facing Cam.

Tonya gives him a curious look, but she doesn't push.

"It  _ was _ mostly nosiness," he tells her. He's always been very good at directing his voice to thwart eavesdroppers, and he's particularly careful about that now, even as he makes it look like they're still in casual conversation. "But they didn't have to check in at all. And they didn't have to ask  _ me _ . It's not like we don't have a healthy rumor mill." The bitterness in that aside could curdle milk. "The ones who bothered … there's not much kindness around here. It's worth rewarding. Or, well, at least  _ acknowledging _ ."

"Makes sense," Tonya agrees, and she redirects him back to interview planning.

_ I don't like feeling exposed, literally or metaphorically _ , he said yesterday. He considers the role he usually plays with her to be a mask, if a more honest one than most. The perfect partner — if  _ perfect _ is defined as infinitely accommodating. He dropped a lot of even that with her outside, and he was clearly nervous about it.

He's trying to act more like his partner role here, with others, instead of hiding behind his usual inane song-and-dance. Because it  _ is _ hiding.

Even the modified role he played with Lee just now was a front, casual-seeming but honestly pretty tense. She can only tell because she's seen him truly casual, relaxed, even silly. It took them a long time to get to the point that he was comfortable being that way around her.

She would find playing all these roles work, but he finds safety in them. That's why this is so hard for him now. But he's following through anyway — not dropping the acts entirely, but toning them down significantly. Partly for her, partly for himself, even though hiding is clearly so much easier for him.

She didn't properly understand what she was asking of him, when she wished for him to do this.


	2. Oxygen Flow

The lieutenant isn't in yet, so they go on to their desks. Might as well clear the decks as much as they can first.

There's something on Jack's desk, because  _ of fucking course there is _ .

He beats Tonya there, snatching the item up before she can grab it and throw it in the trash. And then, for some godforsaken reason, he  _ grins _ . "Hey, neat."

It's a cheap-ass, plastic toy-badge-and-cuffs set, because their coworkers can't let him be for ten fucking seconds. She tries to take it from him, but he keeps it just out of reach.

"Maybe I'll send it to my new grand-niece," he muses. "Well. In a few years, I guess. Three-and-up, come on, that's ridiculous."

"Hand it over," she tells him, because she is  _ over _ this.

He doesn't. "Hey, it's funny," he tells her.

"It is  _ not _ —"

"It's not another fucking dildo, okay?" he says, and it's not that he pitches his voice to carry, but he very deliberately  _ doesn't _ pitch it to  _ not _ carry. Their half of the room is suddenly a lot quieter. "It's not some obscure fetish thing I have to figure out how to look up before I can even tell what it is, and then have to figure out how not to wonder who around here already knows what those things are and how to buy them."

… Okay,  _ that _ was nicely pointed, and a couple of nearby coughs agree.

"This is relevant, and it's simple, and it's not personal. It's not mean. It's just teasing. It's  _ funny _ ."

And with that, he looks like the team player, and she looks like the humorless nag.

Which he clearly realizes just as soon as she does.

"It would've been funny yesterday," Tonya says quickly, before he can undermine himself on her behalf. She doesn't actually think it would have, but if he really wants to play it this way, she'll go along.

"Probably just someone on a different shift," he says, unconcerned. He can't express gratitude to her for this just now — she sees how it wouldn't fit the script, and they're definitely being observed — but just the way he relaxes says it clearly enough. "Yeah, it'll get old in a day or two —" and he actually lets an edge into his tone there, lets anyone still listening in hear the warning "— but for now it's fine, and it's funny, and you just want to steal it, but you can't because I'm keeping it."

Tonya manages a playful scoff, though she's not feeling it. "Plastic junk. I can see it now, and you can have it." How he doesn't pass out from exhaustion by lunchtime, all the acting he usually does, she'll never know. Maybe that's what all the coffee is for.

"It's the thought that counts," he tells her with syrupy virtuousness, as he stores the silly thing in a drawer. But he still checks his seat, automatically, because most of the surprises left in his workspace over the years haven't been good-natured teasing. She focuses intensely on logging into her computer until she can get her scowl about that under control.

It turns out they've each gotten a few separate reports back since yesterday, so they fill each other in as they wait for the lieutenant. Jack falls into his standard collaboration mode, clear to her but too quiet to be overheard. It's not really necessary, but it's not worth fighting him over.

The lieutenant does finally come in, a little later than usual, looking tired. Tonya just tells Jack, "In five," because they really should let the lieutenant settle in first, and Jack nods and goes back to his report. It's a relief not to have to give a whole speech about it while he pretends their plan is all a revelation.

She's being unfair. He never asked her to do that. She just preferred going through that silly drill over facing the vaguely baffled air he affected when she didn't voice the explanations, even though she knew she wasn't its target.

When she eventually stands, though, he actually hesitates.

He soon realizes that his only alternative to getting this over with is continuing to plug away at paperwork while this waits. He gives his computer a disgusted look, locks it, and follows her.

The lieutenant waves them in when Tonya taps on his doorframe, so they enter. He's distracted, but he pays closer attention when Jack closes the door.

Jack, as she somehow didn't predict but probably should have, looks to her to explain. She just looks back, because no. This has to come from him.

He slumps a little but turns his attention to the lieutenant. "Sir, that … um, thing this week, it's … I'm …" He swallows, fixes his gaze on the edge of the lieutenant's desk, and admits, "I'm … not actually okay." It's above a mumble, but not by much.

The lieutenant looks him over with much more focus. "Physical?" he checks.

It's a fair question, since they still aren't certain how this whole "magic" thing works and what can come out of it, but Jack just looks startled. "No, sir."

"All right, then, what do you need? Psych consult? Chaplain?" His tone goes a little dry. "Time off?"

It's a reasonable enough suspicion. The attendance records of other cops who have been through this are … spotty, and some cops would milk it for a few days no matter what. That's never been Jack's style, though, and the lieutenant definitely knows him well enough to know that.

"If …" Jack steels himself and meets the lieutenant's eyes. "If you want a piece of paper clearing me to work, I can do the dance for a session and get that." From anyone else, that would be bravado. From him, it's too simple a fact to trip his hardwired anti-bragging systems. He can hoodwink pretty much anyone he chooses. "If — if you actually want me to — to  _ talk _ to someone … honestly, the time it would take me to unclench would probably run out my retirement clock. I … have some baggage. About therapy."

This does not appear to be a revelation. "Then what?"

Jack gives Tonya a quick glance, clearly wishing she would take over, but he doesn't push for it. "I was thinking … you've got me on desk today, and … and that's probably a good idea." The lieutenant's eyebrows move up a little at that. "I can work on stuff. On me, I mean. Off-shift. I've got … some other options, unofficial. And really, what I'm … it's not really the work side of things. I think I'd probably be fine out in the field, but … Detective Smith knows me, would see if I'm about to lose it or something, so I thought … maybe she could make the call about when I come off desk. And could keep an eye on me for an easy run or two first, to decide about clearing me. And I wouldn't fight her if she thought I wasn't ready. If — if you'll sign off on it. I mean, between us." Because that's not something they can exactly document formally.

The lieutenant leans back in his seat, considering.

On its face, it doesn't seem like a big ask. The simple  _ irregularity _ changes that, though. Tonya sees that clearly, and she can only hope Jack has at least some idea.

After several long, thoughtful seconds, the lieutenant turns to his computer and pokes around on it for a while, frowning at the screen. "What was your last day off?" he asks finally.

"First half of this week," Jack says, wry.

"Not if the unions win. They're pushing for this 'magic' business to be handled as injury-in-the-line. Before that." He gives Jack a few seconds to try to remember and then looks to Tonya. "Smith, what about you?"

"Tuesday," she says, but he shakes his head.

"Unions are pushing for wrangling to be considered duty, too, and even if they weren't, you were doing that on my say."

"Wait," Jack says, frowning. "You worked Wednesday? But — when I said you could go back to work, that was just because I didn't know our schedule. It wasn't an  _ order _ ."

Tonya catches herself very nearly laughing at the image of the awestruck kid he was on Tuesday trying to give her orders, despite the very inappropriate setting now for that reaction, and that clues her in to where the lieutenant is going with this. She's getting punchy, she can't remember her last proper day off —

"Take the next two days. Both of you."

… Well, crap. She starts reassessing hastily.

"I can manage a  _ desk _ , sir," Jack protests.

"I'm not sure we can afford it right now," the lieutenant says. "You're both deep into overtime, and I haven't —"

"The  _ budget _ ?" Jack  _ must _ be worked up, if he's interrupting the lieutenant. "We're short on  _ manpower _ right now, and maybe I can't do anything real to keep people from having to wait  _ hours _ for help, but I can answer the damn phones, look things up, free the others up so they can be out there. Demonstrate that I can hold it together so I can get back out there myself sometime this year —"

"Davis," the lieutenant says, sharp.

Jack bites back his protest, but he doesn't bother with his usual apologetic deference.

"We can't afford the two of you burning out," the lieutenant says. "No, the overtime budget isn't my primary concern, but it's  _ a _ concern, and it's a symptom. I tend to let the two of you run yourselves because you're  _ usually _ sensible about it."

He gives Tonya a look at that, well aware that she's actually the one calling the shots when it's just between her and Jack. She nods slightly, because she gets where he's going and he's right.

"We're all under pressure right now," he concedes. "You've both stepped up, and I appreciate that. But you're overdoing it. I should have stepped in sooner, and I am stepping in now. Take a couple of days, de-stress, figure some stuff out. We'll pick back up Monday, see what's going on then."

"Jack," Tonya says, because he's opening his mouth to protest again. " _ Jack _ . Are you  _ really _ going to refuse a Saturday off?"

He very nearly argues anyway but then realizes what she's saying. "... Oh." He's always wished he could be with Mark over the Jewish Sabbath more often.

The lieutenant frowns. "Are you looking for a schedule change?"

"I don't have kids, I'm not Jewish, I don't need it," Jack says quickly. "Everybody wants Saturdays, and especially for both of us — I'd rather — it's better if we're on the same schedule."

"And I wouldn't say no if we could both get the occasional Saturday," Tonya inserts, a little pointed. She  _ does _ have a kid, and a lot of Lije's stuff happens on Saturdays.

Jack at least looks a little embarrassed. It's been a very long time since she was the most junior detective on their team and he close to it, but he's never really adjusted to their increasing relative seniority.

And he never asks for what he wants. He's usually better about noting what she wants, though.

"I'll take a look at schedules," the lieutenant says. "Might be able to swing a rotation. No promises."

"Thank you, sir," Tonya says. She turns to Jack again. "As for these next couple of days, adjust your own mask first, right? We can't help anyone if we end up pulling a  _ Scanners _ . We both have marriages that could use a little attention" — Jack goes still, which is a danger sign, but she's not entirely sure what's wrong "— and I should check whether my son still recognizes me."

That gets a slight wince from him.

"We'll spend today getting our stuff in order, handing things off where we have to. You can spend tonight and tomorrow enjoying that whole thing. Sunday is more of a problem, but I'll check in —"

"No." Jack starts to cross his arms, catches himself, and shoves his hands in his pockets instead. "No, I am not eating up another one of  _ your _ days off with my bullshit."

"You asked for my help, so you're  _ getting _ it. You told me unstructured time is a problem, so we'll structure it. We'll come up with a time we can talk, because if we don't,  _ I'll worry _ ," she stresses, because he's trying to interrupt. "I'm not saying we have to spend the entire day together or anything. Where it's a Sunday, I can at least know you've got Mark to keep an eye on you —"

"Smith," the lieutenant says, just as sharp as when he cut Jack off. His eyes are on Jack, who has gone still again, and pale. "Knock it off with the personal-relationship commentary, please. Door's closed, Davis. Just the three of us in here."

Tonya hastily reviews what just happened.

Of course. They don't get into personal conversations here of pretty much any kind, in no small part because Jack spends so much of his time here playing an airhead, so she hasn't really processed it, but Jack doesn't talk about Mark in this building. Ever. The fact he's married and the name of his husband are matters of public record, but … he was outed here. Possibly not far from this very spot.

She doesn't know precisely what happened and probably never will. It clearly went very badly, though, and Jack doesn't deal with things. He buries them and walks away. And there's no telling what kinds of repressed trauma have been stirred up in that brain of his now.

Jack is nodding slightly, acknowledging the lieutenant's reassurance.

Best if she downplays it, gives him room to recover. "Right, sorry. Anyway, we're getting a weekend that's an  _ actual weekend _ . That helps us both out. I'll check in with you Sunday, and with any luck, that'll just be a quick thing and we can both actually spend the rest of the day relaxing. And then come Monday, maybe we'll both be just that little bit faster, so we have a better chance of not getting zapped if anyone tries that again. We're not in our twenties anymore. Let the ones who are cover us for a bit while we catch our breath."

Jack sighs, conceding. "Yes, ma'am." He winces and adds, "Sorry, sir, but I just spent three days using  _ sir _ and  _ ma'am _ as — as punctuation, it's a habit, and — I can't really focus on fighting it right now. Just … let me have it for now. Just … just in here. Please."

The lieutenant does look a little annoyed, but he can also clearly see that Jack is far from his usual everything's-perfectly-fine form. "All right. For now."

"And … while I'm … I know me being available for undercover buys you some credit, but … I think undercover work has to be a hard no for now. I … I don't know for how long. I'm sorry."

Tonya hadn't even thought about that, and it's a damn good thing Jack did. Because he goes deep into the role when he works undercover, and he crashes hard after, and if he's dealing with something that sounds more or less like an identity crisis at the moment — yeah, no.

"That's fine," the lieutenant says, reaction far milder than Jack seems to expect. "Let me know when that — no,  _ if _ that changes. It's not a problem if it doesn't. What have I told you about credit?"

"That it's your job to worry about it and not mine," Jack says, in a sort of grudging resignation. "Even though I cost you a  _ ton _ ." He doesn't usually get into this particular argument with the lieutenant in front of Tonya, but he clearly still seems to think he owes a debt for whatever political damage was caused by his being outed.

Hmm. An unexpected personal calamity that caused some form of cost to someone else — someone else in a relative position of authority — and left him feeling the need to help repay that debt. His stirred-up traumas probably  _ interact _ . Fantastic.

"And I meant it," the lieutenant says, his own tones warning. "And since that's apparently as effective as talking to a brick wall … going forward, plan for me not to clear any undercover requests unless there's a damn good reason it has to be you."

Jack looks almost mutinous, but he manages a sullen, "Yes, sir." Tonya is glad the lieutenant has the final say on this, because while Jack is very, very good at undercover work, she's pretty sure he hates it.

Not, of course, that he would ever admit that.

Jack's near-scowl deepens. "Actually, speaking of roles I won't be playing … you may get some complaints, sir. About me." It's pretty sad that Tonya doesn't know what he means by that but clues in when he gets tangled up trying to explain. "It's … I'm going to …"

"He's ditching the space-cadet act," Tonya supplies for him. Waiting him out is fine when it's just on her own time, but Katie's approach seems better in this case.

She's concerned that he assumes  _ not _ acting like the village idiot will lead to complaints, though.

"Ah." The lieutenant considers for a few seconds. "Well, it's about time."

"Sir?" Jack is more surprised than makes any sense.

"I understood it when you started," the lieutenant tells him. "I just thought it would wear off after a few months. Or at least once you had a partner again."

"But … you never …"

"Your call," the lieutenant explains. "Your professional image. And I do see what advantages it gave you. But it's been a complication, too. I've told you before that this is meant to be a team. It's hard for people to work with you when they're not sure you can remember who they are from one day to the next. Just be professional and I'll handle any fallout. Thanks for warning me."

Jack doesn't seem to know how to react to that, so Tonya decides to provide another distraction. "Actually, sir, you've got him on desk today, but would you be open to modifying that?"

Jack doesn't refer to her by her first name when he's talking to the lieutenant, and Tonya is torn between giving him the same courtesy and finding it ridiculously formal, so she tends not to use either name in the end. She should find time to talk to him about that, too.

"We've got a couple of interviews that ought to happen sooner. I was going to try to get to them today, but if we're both going to be out for a couple of days, we'll need to rearrange some things, so I won't really have time to prepare for them. And one of them — Gutiérrez? I don't have any Spanish, so depending how that goes, there's a chance we'd have to circle back anyway." Jack glances at her for that and then carefully looks down at the pen in his hands. "If you'll allow it, he could just take the lead on those and we could get them out of the way."

The lieutenant considers for a few more seconds. "All right. Just the interviews, though. And make sure you both clock out at a  _ reasonable _ hour, got it?"

"Yes, sir," they chorus. The lieutenant dismisses them and they head back towards their desks.

Jack keeps glancing over at her — subtly, to anyone else, but as good as a shout to her. But he doesn't seem to be able to  _ say _ anything out here in the open, so she redirects them to the break room, which happily proves to be unoccupied for the moment.

He pours himself a cup of coffee, turns to face her, and confirms with a glance that they're still alone before speaking. "You're worried that Tiffany Moore Gutiérrez, who can't even pronounce her own new last name correctly because she doesn't know how to roll her Rs, might lapse into more Spanish than you can deal with?"

"You make an interesting point," Tonya says. She's nothing like the actor he is, but she makes a show of checking her nails to ham it up a bit. "Silly me."

The grin she gets for that is more than worth the very small risk she took with the lieutenant. Jack tamps it down after a few moments, disguising it as a mild, professionally appropriate amusement, but he makes sure to murmur a fervent, " _ Thank you _ ," before they head back to their desks for real.

She has a few different reasons for the play. His gratitude isn't one of them, though she appreciates it. Mostly it's that she doesn't want to leave him here to navigate a new professional identity alone. She'd also like to give him a break from dealing with the rest of their unit, since he just spent all day yesterday surrounded by them, and she'd rather see him get a chance to do something he's good at than be mired in paperwork all day again.

And, yes, there's a hint of selfishness to it, too. She has no love for interviews. She's happier to take notes while Jack gets them done in half the time. She also now won't have to spend yet more time catching him up, and possibly even more after that circling back to ask things he would have thought obvious in the moment. It really is far more efficient this way, so she's not going to feel particularly guilty about indulging herself.

Jack promptly places a few calls to line up the interviews. Tonya half-listens, but they know each other far too well to need to discuss how they'll go, so she just notes that he's got them heading out to handle both on-location in the afternoon.

Once those details are set, they dive into working out how to keep their cases from moldering over the next couple of days. Tonya deals with handing off a few pieces; she'll want to get Jack involved in that kind of thing eventually, but he'll need to work up to it.

She finds herself tensing up a little when one of the uniforms stops by, simply because they generally don't. "Um. Detectives?" Armstrong is fairly young and very new, and he seems nervous. "I'm about to do a lunch run, and I was wondering if you wanted me to pick anything up?"

Neither of them likes using the more junior officers as errand-runners. They will if they have to, but only for situations like making sure everyone working a messy crime scene gets fed at some point, not for their own personal convenience. Tonya generally declines on those grounds, along with not always trusting that their food won't be adulterated. Jack's reasons probably match, but outwardly, he usually just acts like he's never heard of this "lunch" concept and manages to wander off in "distraction" halfway through the conversation. The others stopped bothering to include them long ago.

"Good of you to ask," Jack says, turning the world officially upside down, "but we're planning to pick something up on the way in a little while. They're actually letting me off desk for a quick run, and —" he leans forward, conspiratorial "— I kind of want the excuse to get out of here before they change their minds, you know?"

Armstrong has clearly had enough desk duty himself to understand exactly what he means.

Jack leans back again. "So we're all set. Appreciate it, though. Thanks." He makes it sound casually sincere.

Armstrong accepts the soft refusal pretty well, but he still looks awkward as he heads off. Tonya goes back to her report-in-progress, but she can't help wondering what that was all about.

"He left the toy," Jack says quietly about a minute later. "Or was involved, anyway. Hasn't been around long enough to know how it might land. Feels bad about it, but isn't sure how to apologize." He smiles just a little. "I kind of hope it was just him, because that was the best one."

Why the hell is he so pleased about being mocked?

His next glance at her is a bit exasperated. "You can ask around. I'll bet every cop who got zapped has found the same silly crap when they got back. Do you have any idea —"

He changes his mind then, just shaking his head and going back to his report rather than finishing, but she can guess where he was going  _ — how long it's been since I was treated like just-any-other-cop _ , maybe, or  _ how nice it is to be included for a change _ , something like those. Something too personal for him to feel comfortable saying here.

He called it teasing before, not mockery. He's right that there's a difference. She's just not any more used to him getting the nicer version than he is.

She's careful to note that Armstrong might be worth keeping an eye on.

They get everything as sorted out as they can manage and head out, picking up lunch on the way just as Jack said they would. They could have called their interview subjects in, but they generally don't when they're just gathering intel and don't expect a status change. Officially, that's their way of trying to make the process easier on their subjects. Public service and all that. If it happens to mean they do most of their work out in the field, well, that's just a fortunate side benefit.

"Sorry about all the relationship commentary," Tonya tells Jack once they're a good mile from the building. "I wasn't thinking."

"I never told you," he says, a little sour at himself. "All these roles with all these rules and I'm the only one who knows them. Thanks for backing off." He runs a hand over his face. "I'm going to have to figure out how to deal with it."

"Well, yes and no. It's not great that it freezes you up — just because you deserve to breathe, not because it's a problem especially — but that doesn't mean it has to be open season on your home life. A lot of cops bring it up, but a lot don't. You can keep it private if you'd rather. I did figure the lieutenant was safe, but I'll try to be more careful about checking. Just let me know how you want to play it and I'll follow."

He starts to decline, apparently on automatic, but then he stops himself and considers. In the end, he accepts, uncomfortable but careful to thank her.

"You really shouldn't have to deal with any of this," he says a few minutes later. "None of you should. Mark's right that dealing with this kind of crap is an actual job that people get paid for."

"It is," Tonya agrees. "And yeah, ideally, we wouldn't be fumbling our way through this. You included. But … from what I hear, therapy isn't like … I don't know, an oil change or something. You have to find someone, and then it takes time to figure stuff out."

"Yeah. And there are different kinds, too, and I don't know how you even pick. Andy says that part doesn't really matter as much, that what actually matters is whether you can make the right kind of connection with someone …"

"And you're  _ very _ guarded," Tonya agrees. "With good reason. So that would probably be a lot more complicated for you, and there are waiting lists, and then there's the job."

Cops tend to mock therapy, but at least part of that is defensive. There's far too much risk to their careers, for a variety of messy and complicated reasons. It's a huge systemic problem, and it's not on Jack to fix it — or to brave it any more than he really has to.

"Yeah," Jack sighs. "You probably thought I was exaggerating about my retirement clock —"

"Not by much," Tonya assures him. "Possibly not at all. The whole situation does suck, but I think we can all handle it, and you're not in any kind of safety crisis or anything. And you'd say something if that changed."

"Yes. I would." For all his obsessive privacy, he knows better than to take chances about that kind of thing. "Still. I should be able to deal with at least some of this on my own. I don't know, maybe I should look into … I don't know, crystals or meditation or — or yoga or something —"

"Don't," Tonya says hastily.

He gives her a puzzled look.

"Well, maybe don't. Meditation … Lije's school was looking into alternative discipline things, and they were talking about mindfulness and meditation for a while, so I read up on it. It sounds all innocent and harmless, but it's not. Not for everyone, I mean. It's apparently actively bad for some people. If I'm remembering right, that included people with tendencies towards depersonalization, which I don't think is exactly what you've got going on, but which also sounds closer than I'm really comfortable with. I'm not saying you  _ can't _ do it, maybe it'd be fine, but … do the research first, okay? I'll see if I still have those articles, send them over to Mark."

"Why do you always —" But he cuts himself off.

"Always what?" she prompts after several seconds.

He shakes his head a little. "You do that a lot," he says, tone carefully mild. "Sending stuff to Mark instead of me. It's … I mean, it's popular science … I can usually follow it …"

"Dammit." Of course he noticed, and of course he drew the most negative possible conclusion. "Would you  _ please _ call me out on that stuff? Seriously, if I want to insult you, I won't hint about it. I know you can follow it. I send articles to Mark because … I pick up information best by reading it, okay? And I think Mark is the same. You pick up information better by  _ hearing _ it. And I always thought you liked listening to Mark talking about stuff, especially science stuff, so I just thought I was being efficient by getting him to read it and then tell you about it."

Jack looks startled, as if it never occurred to him that she might have put any thought into this. Or at least any positive thought.

"If I ever ran across something by hearing it — I don't know, an audiobook or something? Or maybe some kind of podcast — I'd send that to you instead. I just don't tend to run across those myself, because that's not how I learn. Sorry I never actually explained any of that."

"I could have asked," he admits. "Sooner, I mean." He goes quiet then, thoughtful.

She's been frustrated for a long time that he doesn't push back, doesn't complain, doesn't object. Doesn't stand up for himself. Doesn't dare  _ impose _ by asking her to show even the slightest respect for him.

He did push back just now, but she's reasonably sure he didn't intend to. Not with how quick he was to amend his tone, trying to sound less accusative. Objections like that only slip past his control when he's trying to manage too many things at once. It's not that he doesn't  _ have _ complaints or objections or needs; it's that, most of the time, he ruthlessly argues himself out of expressing them.

She's accepted that some of it is an expression of trust. She hadn't fully realized until today that some of it is a fear of pushing her away. This doesn't really fit either of those. She's known some is an artifact of his nonexistent self-esteem …

While stuck in his younger state, he mentioned once that his grades might not be great, and once that he needed to get his grades  _ back _ up. It later turned out that he'd let them fall while wrestling alone with a self-revelation he's  _ still _ not fully at peace with. He referred to his grades as being "terrible" every time after those first mentions. He was shocked that he even could have graduated high school on time or that he could have passed the civil service exam.

"You didn't think I was trying to insult you," she realizes. "You thought I'd decided you honestly weren't intelligent enough to understand basic articles."

Because he's doubted his own intelligence for a very long time, and he's always trusted her judgment over his own.

Jack doesn't answer, just fiddling with his pen. He's never been all that prone to blushing as an adult, but his younger version hadn't known how to hide his embarrassment that well yet, and that maybe-hangover is turning his cheeks a bit pink now.

"Do I need to have Mark give you the forms-of-intelligence speech?" she growls. "Again?" Mark has given pieces of it more than once around her, sounding pointed each time, so she's pretty sure Jack has heard a lot more of it. She suspected she knew why Mark harped on it, too, but she didn't know it was this bad.

"Ugh.  _ Please _ don't." Yeah, he's heard it, all right. "I'll pencil in trying to work on that, too, but honestly, that's way down my list right now."

He is dealing with a lot, and he's probably right that this topic doesn't belong at the top of the list. Probably. She gives him a grudging nod and leaves him to process things as they continue on to their first interview.

In a nicer world, the interviews would wrap their case in a tidy bow. Jack would ask three perfect questions apiece and walk out with an easy solution in hand. This isn't that nicer world, though, and although the interviews are clearly vital, they just add a few more details.

They are vital, though. Tonya is very glad Jack saw the need for them, and she makes sure to tell him that. He predictably insists she would have seen the same things soon enough. She doesn't see much advantage to fighting about it, but she does tell him she disagrees before changing the subject. His younger version seemed to accept things better if he just didn't have a way to  _ argue _ with her about them, so she might as well try that occasionally.

Jack apparently got a text during the second interview, so he checks his phone once they're back in the car. Whatever he reads puts a gentle smile on his face, an expression she rarely sees even when they're off the clock.

She doesn't ask, because he still deserves his privacy, but of course he notices that she noticed. "I won't be in the way over  _ Shabbos _ ," he explains.

Did he seriously ask permission to be home? She almost says something. But unexpected schedule changes can be at least a complication and deserve communication, so she'll leave it alone. And he might not even mean it the way it sounded to her anyway.

"So you won't run out of food, if he wasn't planning to cook for two?" she suggests instead. She's being purposely silly, because she's seen how much food Mark makes.

"Menus are being reconfigured as we speak," Jack says fondly before going back to his notes.

In that nicer world, the interviews would have rounded out their day as well. Tonya's pretty sure Jack was aiming for that, but unfortunately, he's too good at them. With the timing and routing he booked,  _ she _ might well have needed the rest of the day, but he gets them done with far too much time left for them to round up and clock out or even for her to find a convenient traffic jam.

So they head back to the office. This at least means they can write up the interviews properly and tuck the case away for a few days, but it's a minor annoyance to have to navigate the place again.

She still hasn't decided whether Jack is dealing with a body-language hangover or if he tends towards the same physical gestures as an adult but ordinarily manages to suppress them. Whatever it is, his control over it is getting worse as the day drags on. He's collecting far more curious glances than he usually does when he's at his desk — the rumor mill is clearly abuzz with the news that  _ something _ is going on with him today — and he's inching down in his seat, just as his teenage version kept doing when overwhelmed.

"Stop that," he mutters at one point, as she's glaring down the latest set of stares.

"I will if they will," she says. "Do you really want them  _ watching _ when you fall out of that chair?"

He makes himself sit up. "I  _ could not _ figure out what 'you do you' meant," he says, making her realize how closely this conversation echoes one they had at Katie's kitchen table. "It seems so obvious now. Language is weird."

She agrees and they chat idly about slang as they mostly focus on work. They both know it's a distraction, and they both know he's going to have to figure out how to interact with the rest of their colleagues over time, but there is no good reason for that to be today. It can wait. It  _ should _ wait until he's worked out at least a few things about himself.

Self-defense is far more effective with secure footing. Maybe he'll end up getting along fantastically with nearly everyone; they've actually got a pretty good team these days. The worst offenders have left over time, between retirement and transfers. The lieutenant can't screen perfectly, because too many bigoted assholes know how to hide that crap from the brass, but he's done a good job of it in general over the years.

But there are reasons Jack has hidden from all of them for so long. And even if there weren't, undoing it will take a lot of work and a lot of time. He's gotten a little of that started, but it's better for him to wait on tackling the rest of it until he's got his feet under him properly.

Tonya keeps an eye on the time and makes sure they both get signed out at an eminently reasonable hour, because the lieutenant doesn't normally check but he will today. When they leave, she tries to steer Jack to her car, but he puts his foot down. "You really don't have to drop me off. We live in opposite directions."

He's right, of course, and she doesn't have a good reason to put up with nearly tripling her commute home. She doesn't  _ need _ to hand him off to Mark. He'll be fine on the T.

"Okay," she says, giving in. They're still a little close to the building, so she doesn't mention Mark specifically, but they are far enough away that she figures it's safe to say, "Enjoy the candles and the meals and the downtime. Work on whatever parts of you seem like a good idea, but don't feel like you have to rush things, okay? Take whatever time you need to take. We'll figure this all out."

He nods, which she didn't quite expect. "This whole thing is easier than I expected in some ways, but it's ... much harder in others. So … yeah. I want it over with, but I think you're right that I need to take breaks. I'll try. Thank you. For, like, everything ever, but especially for today."

"You're welcome," she tells him. "Thank you for letting me help."

That gets an awkward half-smile from him, mostly uncertainty, so she shoos him away. The smile shifts over to amusement as he obeys, heading for the T.

She watches for a few seconds but then makes herself turn and head for her car. He's dealing with a lot right now, but he's fine to get himself home. She'll talk to him on Sunday, just to make sure he's still coping reasonably well, but he'll be safe with Mark until then. So it's time for her to take her own advice and take a break herself, to make sure she's prepared for whatever might come next.


End file.
